


A Moment in Time

by Mouse9



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Genderbending, Hints of Sheriarty, M/M, Post-Episode: s02e03 The Reichenbach Fall
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-23
Updated: 2019-06-23
Packaged: 2020-05-16 19:03:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,841
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19324219
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mouse9/pseuds/Mouse9
Summary: Phil Anderson and his group "The Empty Hearse" attempting to discover just how Sherlock faked his death.  Because they KNOW he did.Only a few people know the truth.





	A Moment in Time

**Author's Note:**

> This story came from an innocent question on the Sherlolly board. "Has anyone ever wrote a story where Molly was a man?" Followed by a little bit (a lot) of salt, a bit of frustration by Those Who Not Be Named, shake well and voila, an alternate version of The Empty Hearse.

“ Goodbye John.”

Tossing the cell phone onto the roof of Barts, Sherlock spread his arms wide and took the step off of the roof.  Free falling, the wind rushing past his face, his coat billowing out behind him. 

 

“Sherlock!”  John screamed, watching in terror as his best friend’s body fell from the roof, body falling fast and hard. 

_ Pleasepleasepleaseno!  _ his horrified mind begged in an incoherent mantra.  Pumping his legs as quickly as he could, his gaze fixed firmly on the falling body, he didn’t see the man on the bike pedalling towards him. The bike clipped him hard sending him tumbling onto the ground, his head bouncing on the pavement.  

A man reached out to him, helping him sit up, talking to him- words John couldn't understand, couldn’t comprehend.  He was dizzy, lost. 

_ Get to Sherlock _ his voice yelled at him. 

John’s eyes opened.  The man was gone and there was now a crowd on the sidewalk in front of Barts.  How long had he been out?

Climbing drunkenly to his feet once more, he stumbled towards the crowd, towards where his mind refused to believe his best friend lay, dead and bloodied on the walk. 

 

Standing just in front of the window of an empty third story training room, Margaret Hooper, Mag to everyone who knew him, stared hard at the bungee cord dropping just in front of the window, willing it to do its job as he nervously fingered the applique tail of the T-Rex wearing a lab coat that adorned the jumper he was wearing.  

The bungee stretched taut and then rapidly began rising. Surprised, Mag stepped back, brown eyes wide as the figure of Sherlock Holmes came into view and crashed through the window. 

Glass shards shot inward and Mag covered his face, feeling little pricks of glass hit his hands.

Sherlock landed on his feet, unhooked the cord from the harness attached to the back of his waist.  

Hands flipped up the collar of his coat, shaking off glass pieces and then went to his hair, ruffling to do the same. 

Mag could only stare in shock, wondering absently if the other man knew what he was doing. 

Taking a step towards him, Sherlock reached out, those mercurial eyes focused solely on Mag as hands cupped his cheeks.  

Mag barely had time to breathe, time to think, comprehend what was happening when those lips pressed against his, mouth demanding and taking, the kiss searing itself into Mag’s brain.  

He took the advantage, returning the kiss, his hands sliding up to Sherlock’s neck and jawline, a long-sought discovery, feeling the warm skin against his fingertips. 

As quickly as it happened, it was over. 

Sherlock pulled away and Mag didn’t want to let go. 

The kiss and the moment was broken and Mag stood there, a goofy grin on his face watching Sherlock strut off, hands sliding into the pockets of his coat as he walked towards the door leading out of the room. 

He looked back once, blue eyes meeting brown and Mag knew there was something there.  Something real.

 

* * *

 

 

“Hold on,”  Barb, The taller woman dressed in black, interrupted in disbelief.  “Mag? Who the hell is Mag?”

Philip Anderson looked affronted.  

“Mag Hooper?  The pathologist at Barts?  Worked with Sherlock on loads of stuff.  Short skinny bloke, floppy brown hair, wears horrid dino themed jumpers and those ridiculous socks with lemons on them?  How do you not know him?”

Barb huffed.  “Can we be serious for a moment?  Maybe a real theory instead of your fanfiction?”

Anderson cross his arms perturbed.  

“Fine.  What’s your theory then?”

 

* * *

 

“Goodbye John.”

The phone clicked off and Sherlock pocketed it, giggling besides James Moriarty, the man he had supposedly come up to the roof of St. Barts to confront.  They both sat behind one of the air cooling vents. 

“Do it,”  James urged and Sherlock pulled the rope holding the mannequin dressed as Sherlock currently standing at the edge of Bart’s roof.  The doll fell over the edge as both men giggled at the poorly timed prank. 

They looked at each other, grins wide and bright. 

Slowly James laughter slowed then stopped.  Sherlock’s own laughter followed suit and his head cocked slightly with a questioning gaze. 

Electricity seemed to fill the air between them as the brown eyes and blue eyes met and locked, each sensing what the other wanted. 

Neither moved first, instead seeming to gravitate towards the other as if magnetically.  Head angling, their eyes still on each other, Sherlock didn’t close his eyes until a mere breath before their lips met. 

 

* * *

 

“Hold on!”  Anderson shouted.  “Moriarty? Are you mental?”

Barb’s nose wrinkled, put out that he interrupted her before the best part of the story. 

“What?  It’s just as feasible as your ridiculous theory of Mag and Sherlock.”

“You’re both mental.  Can we discuss poor John and how he must have felt watching the man he loves fall to his supposed death?”  Cat, a young woman wearing an **I Believe In Sherlock**  tee shirt, piped up from her seat on the couch. Barb rolled her eyes.

“Nobody cares Cat.”  she said not bothering to look at the woman. 

“That’s not true.”  Cat insisted, incensed that she was being ignored.  “Everybody cares, we have a group and have been talking about it since it happened.”  She waved her hand dismissively towards Anderson. 

“It’s more believable than Anderson’s delusional fantasy about Holmes dominant kiss to Hooper.  Like he’d even be interested in that tiny little twink.”

Anderson spluttered but Cat continued undeterred now that she had the floor.  “Hooper couldn’t possibly interest him. Everybody knows Holmes is a bottom.”

“Oh shut up Cat.”  Barb shot back. “You’re little fan club is not everybody. And not that I agree with Anderson-”

Another splutter from Phil that was ignored. 

“-But your delusions that Holmes is a bottom are as ridiculous as your insistent that he allowed Watson to top him.  It’s obvious that Holmes is a switch.”

“I don’t know where you’ve been looking,”  Cat retorted, climbing to her feet. Barb stood her ground.

“At every bit of information out there.  The papers, the opinion columns, even freaking Watson’s blog.”

Charlie, who’d been sitting back and listening to everyone now raised his hand. 

“I’m-uh-I’m going to agree with Barb.”  he offered. 

“Traitor,”  Phil hissed Cat glared at Charlie. 

“Your hetro voice doesn’t even count in this discussion.”  she snapped. 

“Oi!  You’re straight too, you cow!”  Barb shot back. 

As the three began shouting and the meeting devolved into an argument, Phillip Anderson crossed his arms and leaned against the wall next to his theory board.  

_ Let them argue,  _  he thought a bit too smug.  _  I know the truth _ .

 

* * *

 

**What Really Happened.**

 

Mag Hooper’s fingers twisted as he looked down at the pale, still body of Sherlock Holmes lying on the metal table. 

Glancing back towards the door and then to the clock, he knew there were only minutes remaining before Mycroft’s men came to collect him. 

Dipping the cloth in his hand into the warm water once more, he continues to gently wipe away the theatre grade fake blood that covered the right side of Sherlock’s face. 

“I’m still on record of saying this was an extremely foolish idea.”  the soft voice echoed in the small space. 

“Your protests are noted.”  A deep voice responded and Mag squeaked a little, jumping back.  

Slowly, Sherlock sat up, touching the wet on his face, fingers coming back clear.

Mag held the cloth close to his chest, brown eyes wide and watching him. 

“Time?”  Sherlock asked as he gingerly climbed from the table. 

“Four minutes.”  Mag watched him warily, making sure there were no signs of emotional trauma.  The Detective did just fake his own death. “Clothing is in my office.”

“Excellent.”

He couldn’t look.  Blushing furiously, Mag turned his back on the office where he knew Sherlock was stripping and changing into fresh clean clothing.  

His imagination ran wild and he combatted temptation by picking up the basin and taking it to the stainless steel sink to clean it out.  No evidence. He been firmly explained that by Mycroft and as much as the older Holmes brother unnerved him at times, he wanted to prove to them both that he was a man that could be trusted.

Mag had fallen for the tall Detective by their second meeting but had not even tried for a sliver of hope.  

Short, thin, and odd, Mag Hooper had heard all the insults: Freak, twink. Ghoul. 

 

He was feminine looking and although he tried not to, it was obvious as to which sex his interest lie. 

Right now, he was Holmesexual.

Sadly, the man never showed any interest outside flirting when he needed something. 

“You need to bag these up.”

Like now.

“Mycroft will take them with him.”

With a sigh, Mag pulled out a personal items bag and turned, holding it open. 

Sherlock stood before him in denim, a long-sleeved Henley and a grey hoodie.  The man looked like a bloody snack he’d never get to try. It wasn’t fair. 

“Two minutes.”  He gave the time remaining at Sherlock’s questioning gaze.  “Please. Be careful.”

“Always am.”  Came the automatic response.  

Mag laughed, raking back an errant piece of his floppy hair from his face. 

“You are never careful.”  He countered with an amused snort. 

That elicited a smile from Sherlock.  A smile that faded a moment later. 

“Thank you.”  he said soberly. “I couldn’t have done any of this without your help.”

Mag shrugged, tightening the strings on the bag before handing it over to Sherlock. 

“I told you I’d help in any way I could.”

Sherlock took the bad, his fingers wrapping around Mag’s smaller ones. 

Mag’s eyes grew wide as Sherlock stepped close to him, holding his gaze.  

“Mycroft will make sure you stay safe.”  his voice was soft, deeper.  His gaze softened and he gave a small smile.  

Sherlock was so close to him now.  Close enough to…

Mag’s eyes closed as he felt Sherlock’s lips press firmly against his right cheek, near the corner of his mouth and linger, just a moment longer before leaving.   Mag wasn’t breathing when he opened his eyes to look at the man he’d fallen in love with years before. 

“I hope you’ll be happy Margaret Hooper.”  That voice caressed his senses and he shivered.  

“Mag.”  he started automatically.  “Margaret is a girls name.”

The soft smile appeared once more.  

“So is Sherlock.”

Then he was gone.  The delivery door that led to the alleyway was slowly closing and Mag caught sight of an idling black car before the door shut completely. 

Smiling, Mag raised a trembling hand to his cheek where Sherlock had kissed him.  He could still feel the phantom pressure. 

“Not until you come home Sherlock Holmes.”  Mag whispered to the now empty room. 

The Detective would come back to his home in London.  Back to Baker Street. 

Back to Mag.  

No matter how long it took, Mag knew Sherlock would come home. 


End file.
